


Like a Sickness

by VoidofRoses



Category: Count Duckula
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, I felt like writing vampires, and want to do something to the main character, eheheheheh, or as human as you can get with vampires, this is what I get when I marathon a show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 17:48:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidofRoses/pseuds/VoidofRoses
Summary: Patience had always been the Igor family’s strong suit.





	Like a Sickness

Patience had always been the Igor family’s strong suit.

Igor prided himself on his patience and fortitude, his loyalty and fairness. He had spent well over several centuries tolerating his young master’s impulsiveness and search of fame and fortune, bringing him back down to earth when he got too big for his wings, reminding him that his future laid not out there in the wide world, but here in Transylvania, terrorising the populace and charming the young maidens for their blood.

But, it seemed, as the years drew on, so Duckula’s own tolerance grew thin. Immortality weighed heavily on the young count’s shoulders, and the idea of being stuck in a crumbling, ancient castle while the world changed around him wasn’t exactly the nicest thought ever. The years ticked by, and still the count refused to move his stance. No blood, no vampire business, no relatives, nothing of the sort was to be discussed. Igor could see his young master growing weaker as the days rolled on, which was not surprising given his vegetarian diet, but perhaps the most surprising thing came one dreary October morning.

He admitted that he was feeling ill.

It wasn’t very often that the young master admitted anything. Defeat, wrongness, that his plans were ill advised, but the illness taking hold wasn’t one that could be fixed with medicine from the chemist or Igor’s own potions, and Igor informed him as such.

“Then what is it?” Duckula snapped from his fetal position under the blankets of his overly large bed, curtains drawn tightly shut against the sunlight peeking through as Igor pulled back, placing the thermometer back in the medical bag. “What the heck is wrong with me?”

“To put it simply, sir, you are becoming that which you always have been.” If Duckula could pale, Igor would think that it was rather comical right now with the way his eyes bulged from the black circles around sunken sockets. “It was only a matter of time. I don’t know why you’re so alarmed, milord.”

“I…but I can’t be! You said so yourself, that you accidentally made me with ketchup instead of blood!” The count drew his hand away from underneath the blankets, feeling his mouth for fangs that had never been there before, shoulders hunched as he gave a moan of agony, burying his head against his knees. “They’re growing, really growing. I can’t…why now?”

“Mayhaps it simply took some time for your forebear’s genetics to push past the ketchup, milord.” In all honesty, he didn’t know. Igor simply recited the spell and provided the ingredients for the resurrection of the Duckula line. In his seven and a half centuries of service, this mistake was the first. “You are unique after all. This is the first time anything like this has occurred in the entire Duckula family line.”

His master gave a whimper and drew his fingers through his hair, making it messier than usual. “What am I going to do?” he moaned, hands clamping around the back of his neck as he stared at the mirror sitting uselessly in the corner. “Just the thought of drinking blood is making me feel sick.”

“Perhaps you should make peace with your humanity, milord,” Igor suggested, standing near the doorway now, hand on the doorknob. “Before the blood of your ancestors consumes you.”

He left him to it.

Hours later, when the castle had not seen a single peak of its master all day but heard the dreadful moans coming from the upper floors, Duckula emerged from his room, hands drawn upwards keeping the lapels of his cloak tight around his face. His jaw was awfully sore, growing longer teeth in a matter of hours not being natural after all, and his new fangs peeked out over his bottom lip, much like the fake ones had many times before.

“Igor! Igor, I need to talk to you!” He clamped a hand over his mouth, groaning against it.

“You yelled, milord?” Igor appeared at the top of the stairs to the east wing, making his way down to where the young count was. “Or rather squeaked?”

“Ha-ha,” he grumbled, pulling his hand away as he watched his butler approach. A glance at it and a sniff confirmed that the splatter he had felt against it was, indeed, ketchup, splotches covering his palm. Duckula wiped his hand against his pants, then cleared his throat. “In regards to my...my sickness.”

“Yes?”

“Can we talk somewhere privately, please? I don’t want Nanny barging in…”

“Of course, milord. Might I suggest the drawing room on the fifth floor of the west wing?”

“I…sure. Lead the way.”

They walked the dark corridors of Castle Duckula in silence, almost amicably so, the count flinching at any contact to the dimming sunlight outside peeking through the upper floors, stepping over sunbeams like an overly cautious cat. Igor watched this interaction out the corner of his eye, noting with some semblance of smugness of the teeth that protruded from his young master’s mouth. Once inside the drawing room, Duckula took perch in a seat, head in his hands while Igor stood, arms crossed behind his back, waiting instruction.

“Igor…how long have you served me?”

“I believe this year will mark eight and a quarter centuries in service, milord. Not that I’m counting.”

Duckula stared at him through his fingers. Igor didn’t look a day over sixty, if he was being generous, and it was terribly long lived for someone in servitude. He hunched his shoulders, shrinking back into the chair and staring at the empty fireplace. “How do you do it? How do you spend centuries just doing the same thing over and over again? How do you just…”

“Live, milord?” A nod was his answer, and Igor paused, humming. “I see you are conflicted with the idea of immortality now. It did not cross your mind before?”

“Maybe once or twice.” The count rubbed his sore jaw, fingers grazing over his new fangs. “I thought I’d be too wrapped up in showbiz to bother realising the years going by.”

“Then you already have my answer.” Igor tapped his fingers against his elbows, rocking from toe to heel as he stared off. “Work keeps me busy and on my toes more often than not, and you especially have been the most troublesome young master, if I may say so.” He watched the young master’s face scrunch up at the comment, but he neglected to say anything against it. It wasn’t as if it was a lie. “If I may, milord, perhaps once your true nature takes hold, you will simply not care anymore.”

“I can’t imagine that,” Duckula said as though to himself, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. All of a sudden he looked very small, like he had been born mere hours ago. “I want to help people. I don’t…I don’t want to be a monster.” It was the same tired spiel he had given before, though this time around it sounded like he didn’t quite believe himself. Igor didn’t believe him either. He inhaled sharply, then coughed against his sleeve, and Igor spotted a speck of red ketchup against the white. “You need to promise me, Igor. Promise me you won’t let me hurt anyone.”

“You know I can’t make such a promise, milord.”

“Humour me.”

Igor’s lips twisted into a grimace, before he sighed. “Very well. I promise, milord.”

Duckula’s mouth shifted into a sad smile as his eyes glowed a faint red. “I don’t believe you.”

——————————

She hadn’t meant to get separated from the tourist group.

The bar crawl through Sighisora had dissipated as the night wore on, some moving back to the hotel while the others walked on. She had meant to turn left…or was it right? Her head swam with one shot glass too many, feeling her way up the street with a hand against the houses lining the cobblestone until there weren’t any, and her fingers scratched against jagged rock instead. The young woman found herself standing in front of large doors before she could think about it, the one on the left opening invitingly.

She let herself in.

“Hello? Excuse me, I hope I’m not intruding,” she called, and thunder crackled in the distance. Moonlight shone through the large windows of the foyer, beaming down the staircase. Shadows moved about, dancing off the walls and floors wherever she looked. She could remember something that the tour guide had said about Castle Duckula, but she didn’t know what it was.

She bumped into something and fell back, skinning her palms. Looking up, the girl saw a figure standing in the darkness, sighing in relief. “Thank goodness. I’m sorry for intruding, but I was separated from my group. Would you mind terribly if I slept the night? Or if you could point me towards the backpackers in town, that would do too.”

“Now why would I send a pretty young thing like you off into the village on a night like tonight with all that rain about?” The voice that came through the darkness was that of a man, and as she stood she could see his silhouette outlined by the moonlight. She faintly saw him smirk in the dark, and a shiver ran down her spine as she realised the eerie glow wasn’t coming from a cell phone. “When you’ve wandered so nicely into my castle?”

A sickening crack rang through the foyer as her neck snapped when his hand clamped over her face and shoulder, unbridled strength allowing him to make quick work of her. Duckula hunched, sinking his teeth into her neck with a small groan. Blood, fresh and just slightly bitter with hops from the alcohol, drew down his throat, and by the time he was finished, the body crumpled to the floor as he let go, wiping his thumb along his jaw to collect anything that had spilled. “Now that’s what I call having food delivered to your door,” he said to himself with a chuckle, turning away and licking his lips. “Igor!”

“Yes, milord?”

“Clean up the mess before it stains my rug.” The count snapped his fingers and pointed down towards the body, then glanced towards the entrance, sweeping his cloak behind him as he strode towards it. “I’m going for take out.”

“Marvellous.” The dry response wasn’t heard as he disappeared into a cloud of black smoke and lightning, Igor looking at the body with a small sigh. “I’ll go get the shovel.”

And as the moon rises over Sighisora, we listen to the sound of screams as the count of Duckula terrorises the populace of the town below Castle Duckula. Goodnight out there, whatever you are.


End file.
